It
was about toys, small forks, toilet targets, losing…it happened more often, and
was less satisfying.
Hitting and slapping.
It was running rampant among the siblings
under my roof.
“Stop!”
(Didn’t work)-
“Knock
it off.” (Didn’t register)-
“Please! You guys. Don’t.” (Like watershed over duck feathers)- My
requests and demands were not penetrating.
New
Plan: and not just new, something off
the wall, something big that would really make an impact, something that would
finally stick.
I
met my children in the upstairs hallway, “sit down you guys. Listen to me.”
I sat a few stairs below them, looked them each in the eyes. I didn’t want to hear reasons anymore,
posting blame, justification--it was all--so--tired. I did exactly what they didn’t expect. What I didn't expect!
“If
you slap, do you get what you want?”
“No.”
“You know what would happen if you slapped
someone at school, right?”
“Yes.”
“You think you’d go to the principal’s office?”
“Yes!” I raised my eyebrows in agreement. “But Mommy,” my first-grader said, “we never
do it out of the house!”
“We won’t,” added
my preschoolers.
“Hum. Okay, tell me: why
do you slap each other?” Silence, but I’m
seeing good guilty looks, a barometer that tells me I have an opening now. “Let me tell you something: One time, Jesus
was talking to people about hitting and you know what he said?”
“No.”
“But he’s strong, I know.”
“Um hum. It’s surprising
what he did. He said if someone hits you
on the cheek, turn to give your other one. In other words, I think He’s saying don’t hit
or start a fight, turn your cheek and be done with it.”
“Why does He say that?”
“You said already it doesn’t fix anything to
hit, and it doesn’t make you feel better, so what do you think? Would a second slap fix it?”
“No!”
“Does
another time make you feel better?”
“No.”
“Right. So you
understand? It does no good to slap; it
just starts a fight, and solves nothing.
You got it?”
“Yeesss.” A chorus
of pupils say back to me.
“Good. So, next time your brother or sister slaps
you, you’re not going to battle back, right?
Walk away. Come to us. Let’s try to understand.”
“We’re sorry, Mommy,” my six year old hugs me. “Sorry,” my baby throws three year old arms
around my neck. My middle child looks
down through blond mega lashes, but his “sorry” comes through a clenched jaw
and is, at best, an attempt.
I hug them
all, “I love you guys, and I really want to see you together and loving
well. These people here,” I jostle them
in a bear hug, they laugh, “when you grow up, they will be there. On Sunday they will
call you. They love you. Let’s respect
each other.”
After a moment of taking in
their big tiny-hand hugs, I follow an urge to add the end of that passage, “And, you know what he says right after the hitting stuff?
‘If someone asks for your clothes, give them your coat too.’ If someone needs something and you have it,
you can help them.
“A coat?”
“Right!”
“How about my shoes?”
“Oh,
Absolutely. I’ve given someone my shoes
before. It’s strange, but it’s good?” I remember that woman’s face;
she has my good thoughts still. “I love you
guys so much.”
“Yes, Mama.”
I
left them upstairs in happy play. I poured a cup of coffee, satisfied-for once-with
my parenting. “Ummm.” I looked over the yard which was turning to spring right
before my eyes. I’ve done it right! I
should use God more often.
Then,
I hear my children:
“Oh,
yeah! Jesus is going to punch you in the
cheek if you don’t stop it!”
“Whoaaa!” I yell.
“…both
cheeks, too! And He’s tuff.”
I run to the stairs, “No,
no, no, no, no…”
“Yeah,
watch it!" says the third, "He’s going to steal-your-shoes
for an old lady.”
Wow!! We need to tackle this--after nap.
